Twins at Houston. Crooked E's, 5; TC's, 3.

The argument rages on. Was last year's wild card run by the Astros the work of a plucky group of overachievers? Or was it the final pump-and-dump scheme by the masters of Enron Field? With inflated properties such as "the Killer Bees" -- a Fastow shell entity if I've ever heard of one -- and Minute Maid Park itself, it's hard to tell how seriously to take the Astros. But one thing is sure: when a check swing almost flies out of the park, anyone wishing to find the real Homerdome need only get on 35W and drive south.

We can't win them all. I know it's obvious but I'll say it again. We can't win them all. The game is just too weird for that. It all started very well, of course, with the Silvanator back to his Silvanating ways. The ball dove away from the batter's bats. Silva never was far from the strike zone. He wore his pants high and tight like he was starring in the "Chacarron" video. Like they were painted-on denim and he was the first kid in his school to buy acid-washed jeans. Tight and right. But there are just too many variables in baseball, too many unpredicatable moments, to win every game. Eight in a row will just have to do.

Speaking of variables, how 'bout that Kyle Lohse? Now, I've always felt a little bad for Kyle. Not that he hasn't brought it on himself. But for several years he seemed like a nice young man. Quiet. Sort of serious, in a California way. Like Johnny Depp trying to hide his Edward Scissorhands hands. Then the sucking time came. And let no one for whom the sucking time has not come cast aspersions on those for whom it has. Because who knows how you might react. Will it be with a wistful smile and reflections on the Great Wheel of Life? Or with a bat to Ron Gardenhire's door? Hard to know.

This was a winnable game. It never seemed more winnable than in the top of the seventh, when Carlos himself tagged a single to center to start the inning. Standing on first base, he seemed to say, "This isn't so hard. Look at me. El Chacarron stands at first victorious. He compels you to bring him home." And yet there he stood as Castillo and Punto flied out. Mauer walked and Silva -- looking slightly less hubristic -- moved to second. Cuddyer worked the count to 3-1 before poking the ball to the third baseman. El Chacarron stood at second, beached.

And that was that. The game was over, of course, from the second Kyle walked onto the field. The sucking followed him like a giant cloud; you could barely see him through the plumes of sucking. Viewers throughout the five state area were slapping the sides of their TVs trying to clear up the sucking on their sets. And the problem is especially bad in Houston -- a town that knows how to work with sucking. They know that if you paint lipstick on a pig, there are some who might say, "that's dang attractive pig. Turns out I enjoy seeing lipstick on a pig. Indeed, I might like to put the innovators who lipsticked that pig up on the front page of my magazine. And perhaps those very same innovators might like to contribute to my opera hall and planetarium."

It's just a game. And sometimes over the course of a long season, when you're playing in a bandbox, and the home team keeps smacking it into the wall like it's wallyball or something, you lose. And when you lose, you don't take a bat to Ron Gardenhire's door and you don't loaf while backing up home and you certainly don't funnel your losing into off-book partnerships. You take your lumps and come back to work tomorrow.

Kenny-boy knows that now. Maybe Kylie-boy will learn.

This entry composed by Goober, kindly subbing for BG. Thanks, Goober.